This isn't motel art anymore
by emma4713
Summary: This isn’t motel art anymore. This isn’t crap without inspiration, just drawing or sketching or painting because that’s what she’s supposed to do as an artist.This is inspiration. This is exhilaration. This is love.


This isn't hotel art anymore. This isn't crap without inspiration, just drawing or sketching or painting because that's what she's supposed to do as an artist.

This is inspiration. This is exhilaration. This is love.

Each drawing, sketch, painting, shows her exactly what she was thinking when she made it.

The charcoal is her favorite. It has rough, shattered edges. Its sharpness pierces her even though it came from within her. It's the way she remembers him when she thinks of her heartbreak, of his heartbreak.

This pastel piece has grilled cheese sandwiches and iPods because she was happy. This painting has a dark sky with stars and lawn chairs and smiles because she was in love. There's an Italian shadow in the background of this one because she was crying. Joy involves yogurt lids.

The one of truth is abstract—random pieces fit here and there and only she understands it. He'd understand it too, but he's not here.

It has a Dundee, because she was drunk, but she knew exactly what she was doing. A vending machine and nickels. An umbrella. There's a teapot and a yearbook. The center is a royal flush, in hearts of course. And the mood shifts. It darkens suddenly. There's a koala bear and a broken engagement ring. There's that shadow again.

She knows she shouldn't—she _knows _she shouldn't—but when her art teacher asks for collections for the fair, she doesn't hesitate. Scranton's small enough that people will recognize him. If anyone she knows comes—no matter how unlikely that is—they'll _know_.

But she doesn't care. Because it's art, _real_ art. It has soul. It has character.

She doesn't invite anyone from the office. They wouldn't come anyway, she knows. But he might. Even though he's with someone else and doesn't look at her the same way, doesn't smile at her the same way, doesn't play pranks with her like he used to, she knows he might still come. Hands in his pockets and a blank face. But when he sees her art he'd smile—at least that's what he used to do. He'd grin and tell her it was great. But now things are different. She's different. He's different. The art's different.

So she doesn't tell him. She doesn't tell anyone. She doesn't care if anyone shows up. She is content to stare at the artwork herself. It's what she's been doing the past three weeks anyway.

The first piece was with pencil. _With pencil_. And on the back of a memo she was supposed to shred. It's a little eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sketch she couldn't stop. She had looked up at him and her fingers twitched and the pencil started to move. It was hollow, like an initial sketch of something that was supposed to be so much bigger. But it was full and deep and emotional. Cold and grey and white and everything.

She sets up her collection at the art fair. It's in chronological order clockwise around the abstract. Because all she can do is go in circles around the truth.

For the first hour no one comes. She moves her stool so she's looking at her own work. She's knows she shouldn't be, knows it's absurd for an artist to be sitting staring at her own work. But she wants to see him.

"Hey."

And it's Roy. She doesn't attempt to hide it, doesn't make excuses. He understands now. He may not get the entire abstract, but the broken engagement ring is blatantly obvious.

"Hey."

"I heard there was an art show and I thought you might have stuff in it."

"Yeah. I do."

"Yeah."

He just stares at it, looking defeated but comfortable.

"Obviously it's good, but I don't really think I can objectively critique it."

He even tries a smile. She likes that.

"Yeah. It's just more real than the office building or a pot of flowers. This has—"

"Heart in it."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry, I can't really look at it much longer."

"That's okay. Thanks for coming."

She says it like a question and holds out her arms. He hugs her but it's brief and then he's gone. She can't blame him.

Oscar and Gil stop by about fifteen minutes later. Oscar says nothing and just stares. But Gil—Gil, who doesn't know Jim—beams.

"This is amazing!"

"Thanks," she says quietly.

"I—wow."

Oscar is still silent.

"Thanks for coming you guys. I didn't think anyone knew about it."

"It was in the paper. Your name as a featured artist."

She beams. Someone thought she was important enough to list her as a featured artist in an art show of over fifty people. But the smile fades. Did he see the ad?

Oscar pulls Gil away rather quickly. He keeps insisting the art is fantastic and doesn't really want to leave, but she's thankful when they're gone.

She's just about to start taking things down but she hears an intake of breath behind her. She knows it. She somehow recognizes him just by the way he inhales. She turns around slowly.

His eyes are wider than usual and his mouth hangs half open. She steps out of the way because he can't see the middle piece. He can't see the abstract. He can't see the truth.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't even look at her. He just stares at her work. She can tell when he moves from one to another; his eyes flicker slightly. A gentle flash of recognition. He even smiles at some of them—the same ones that make her smile.

He smiles at the teapot and the umbrella and gasps at the royal flush, at the broken engagement ring.

His reactions make her want to cry. It's heartbreaking and amazing all at once.

Finally his eyes connect with hers.

What is she supposed to do? Explain? Apologize? All she wants to do is draw him again. Draw him the way he looks at that exact moment, complete with the confusion and awe and maybe a little bit of hope.

"Hey," is all he can get out.

"Hey."

They look at each other.

"That's—um—that's—"

"You."

"That's me."

"Do you get the umbrella?" It's all she can think of. It's something light and funny and maybe it will break whatever stupor he's in.

He does smile slightly. "Every time Dwight asks me to hand him something I think he expects me to do it with my mind."

She laughs.

"There was a note with the teapot, telling you how I felt. I took it back. I was too scared."

"I knew what I was doing at the Dundees. I wanted to kiss you, even if it was a sloppy, drunk kiss."

Apparently it was time for confessions.

"I left Scranton because I couldn't look at you anymore."

"I broke up with Roy that night."

His breath catches and he looks at his feet.

"That night?"

She nods. "It wasn't just you. There were a lot of reasons why I did it. But you were the catalyst." She has never said this to anyone except her mother. "I was giddy. I felt so guilty because no one should be that happy after ending a seven-year relationship. But I couldn't stop smiling. I was going to call you, but I wanted it to be something I did for me, not just because of you. So I resolved to tell you at lunch on Monday."

"But I wasn't there Monday."

"I figured you were just sick," she can't stop now that she's started. The words just keep coming. "Then you were gone Tuesday. I left you so many messages I felt like a middle school girl. Angela ended up telling me you transferred."

She remembers the day. The blonde said it in a quiet, gentler voice than she usually used. Tears had immediately sprung to her eyes but she ignored them, thanked Angela, and went back to work. She almost cries again just thinking about how she had felt her heart shatter instantly, like it was dunked in liquid nitrogen then thrown against a wall.

"You…" His voice trails off because it hurts him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't something I could do over the phone."

He nods. He understands. He could never have told her he loved her unless she was right in front of him. Tangible and beautiful and everything.

"I could've—we could've—"

She nods sadly. She doesn't know if he even still wants to or if he's just lamenting the fact that he didn't get what he wanted all those months ago.

"I loved you."

There it was. Past tense. She looks at her feet and blinks back tears. But she still has to say it.

"I love you."

His hand on her neck, just under her ear, is cold. But as the other hand holds her to him by the small of her back, the rest of him is warm. She has just enough time to smile before his lips crash against hers.


End file.
